I hate that I respond.
I hate that my body arches against his on instinct.
But I do. I wrap my legs around him and groan into his mouth as he takes my lips with his own. It’s violent, wet, and fast. It’s sexy and hot and all-consuming, and I can barely breathe from how his lips take my mouth.
Because this isn’t about love, it never was.
This is about power.
And while we both know it’s he who holds all of the power, neither of us is willing to give it up. I’m not willing to concede.
His hands are in my hair, pulling me closer, as if he’s starving for something, as if he can’t stand the space between us. My mouth opens beneath his, allowing him to take the kiss deeper.
I moan without meaning to. My hands claw at the lapels of his jacket, dragging him closer, and for one brutal, perfect second, I hate how much I want him.
And then I remember.
What he knew.
What he kept from me.
What he’s still keeping.
I break the kiss with a gasp and pull back just far enough to look him in the eye.
And then I slap him. Hard.
His head snaps slightly to the side, and I see the flicker of surprise before he turns slowly back to face me.
My hand tingles. My chest heaves.
He says nothing, but his eyes say everything. Suddenly, they turn so dark, so cold. A patience overcomes him that’s chilling, and in that moment, I realize I pushed too hard.
I stare at him, furious and breathless, and still I push. I can’t be stopped. The hurt is lashing out in waves uncontrollable to me. “You don’t get to fuck your way out of this.”
He exhales through his nose, slow and steady, and I can see him recalibrating, shifting from lust to calculation again. I already see the unhinged look in his eyes, and I know in that moment, I’m honestly and utterly fucked.
The red mark from my slap is still fresh on his cheek, and for a moment, I think he’s going to end me. But then I see it—his jaw tightening, eyes darkening, control slipping just enough to make something primal break through.
He lunges for me, and I barely resist. I’m already breathless. Already wet. I know this version of him. And I know exactly what pain and pleasure he’s going to pull from me.
“You don’t get to punish me for this,” I hiss.
He grabs my ankle and yanks me down the bed in one swift motion, scratching my back on the embroidery of the blanket.
“You’re a reckless, spoiled fucking brat who needs to be reminded of her place.”
Suddenly, he grabs my left arm with a menacing tug, making me jump at the quick force of his movement.
He pulls my hands above my head and binds them to the wrought iron frame with the silk rope that’s always ready, attached at the legs. The silk is tight, but soft. He knows exactly how much pressure is correct. How much I like it when it hurts.
“You’re angry,” I murmur, heat flushing through me, “you don’t get to do this when you're angry.”
He leans over, lips brushing my ear. “I’ll do whatever the fuck I please to my wife, because I own her.”
Despite the venom in his words, I arch into him, pressing my thighs together, pretending to squirm. “Fuck you.”
He bites down on the side of my neck just above the muscle of my shoulder so hard I cry out in a sob. Holding me there like a wild animal for more than a minute until I scream that it’s more than I can take.
